


Changing Everything:a Riordan ‘verse rewrite

by MrToddWilkins (orphan_account)



Category: Percy Jackson and the Olympians - Rick Riordan, The Heroes of Olympus - Rick Riordan, The Kane Chronicles - Rick Riordan
Genre: Alternate Canon, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Rewrite, Epic Length, F/M, basically a Perdrew rewrite of PJO HoO the Kane Chronicles and quite possibly ToA, just in case you forgot, like Uber Epic Length, oh and also the short stories, why else would I include Annabeth and Carter in the ship tags
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-03
Updated: 2018-12-03
Packaged: 2019-09-06 00:23:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16821421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/MrToddWilkins
Summary: Possibly the first Perdrew longfic ever.





	Changing Everything:a Riordan ‘verse rewrite

**Author's Note:**

> Book One (Percy Jackson and the Lightning Quest):Chapters 1-36
> 
> Book Two (Percy Jackson and the Sea of Monsters):Chapters 37-72
> 
> Interlude One (Percy Jackson and the Carriage of War):Chapters 73-80
> 
> Book Three (Percy Jackson and the Hunters of the Moon):Chapters 81-?

Look,guys,I didn’t want to be a half-blood,okay?

If you’re reading this story,close it right now. Being a half-blood is dangerous business,and very scary to boot. A lot of the time,various monsters are hunting you,seeking out anyone with godly blood.

If you’re normal,then that’s great. Read on. At times,I almost envy you for believing that it’s fiction. 

But if you recognize yourself in the pages of these memoirs, _stop reading._ Like, _right now._ You just may be one of us. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

At any rate,this will be a very long tale,encompassing wars against Titans of many powers,stone giants from the dawn of ages,a chaos snake who wanted to destroy the world,and many other things. Strap in,and without further ado.......

————-

_May 12,2005_

_New York City_

It was a very nice day for a field trip,I had to admit as we rode the bus into Manhattan. There were a few clouds in the western sky and the Sun provided just the right amount of warmth I needed. 

There was 28 of us kids,all students at Yancy Academy in New Rochelle. We were the craziest kids anyone ever had to teach,most of us having come from various public schools in the greater metropolitan area. We were going to the Metropolitan Museum of Art to look at their collections of ancient Egyptian,Greek,and Roman art. Torture,right? Well,not necessarily. Our Latin teacher,Mr.Cassius Brunner,practically ate this stuff up. Unlike most Latin teachers I’ve heard of,he wasn’t boring. He was as far from boring as it is possible for a teacher to be. Not every teacher let us play games in class,or had an epic suit of genuine Merovingian (or so he claimed) armor behind his desk.

I was praying that I wouldn’t get into trouble this time. Trouble had a way of following me around. See, bad things happened to me on field trips. Like at my fifth-grade school, when we went to the Saratoga battlefield, I had this accident with a Revolutionary War cannon. I wasn't aiming for the school bus, or for Mr.Kellington’s toupee,but of course I got expelled anyway. And before that, at my fourth-grade school, when we took a behind-the-scenes tour of the Marine World shark pool, I accidentally hit the wrong lever on the catwalk and most of our class took an unplanned swim. And the time before that... Well, you get the idea. But this trip, I was determined to be good.

All the way into the city, I put up with Nancy Bobofit, the freckly, redheaded kleptomaniac girl from Cleveland, hitting my best friend Grover in the back of the head with chunks of peanut butter-and-pickle sandwich.

Grover was an easy target. He was scrawny. He cried when he got frustrated. He must've been held back several grades, because he was the only sixth grader with acne and the start of a wispy beard on his chin. On top of all that, he was crippled. He had a note excusing him from gym for the rest of his life because he had muscular dystrophy. He walked funny, like every step hurt him, but don't let that fool you. You should've seen him run when it was enchilada day in the cafeteria.

Anyway, Nancy Bobofit was throwing wads of sandwich that stuck in his curly brown hair, and she knew I couldn't do anything back to her because I was already on probation. Headmaster McAvoy had threatened me with in-school suspension if anything bad, embarrassing, or even mildly entertaining happened on this trip.

“I'm going to kill her," I mumbled. Grover tried to calm me down. "It's okay. I like peanut butter." He dodged another piece of Nancy's lunch,casually eating a bite of dill pickle.

“That's it." I started to get up, but Grover pulled me back to my seat. 

Looking back on it, I wish I'd decked Nancy Bobofit right then and there. In-school suspension would've been nothing compared to the mess I was about to get myself into.

———

Mr. Brunner led the museum tour. He rode up front in his wheelchair, guiding us through the big echoey galleries, past marble statues and glass cases full of really old black-and-orange pottery. Rusted swords gleamed behind glass panels,as did ancient scrolls not even remotely legible,at least not as far as I could tell. It blew my mind that this stuff had survived for more than two thousand years.

He gathered us around a thirteen-foot-tall stone column with a big sphinx on the top, and started telling us how it was a grave marker, a _stele_ , for a girl only a few years older than us. He told us about the carvings on the sides. I was trying to listen to what he had to say, because it was kind of interesting, but everybody around me was talking, and every time I told them to shut up, the chaperone, Mrs. Dodds, would give me the evil eye.

Mrs. Dodds was this little math teacher from Georgia who always wore a black leather jacket, even though she was fifty years old. She had come to Yancy halfway through the year, when our last math teacher had a nervous breakdown. From her first day, Mrs. Dodds loved Nancy Bobofit and figured I was devil spawn. She would point her crooked finger at me and say, "Now, honey," real sweet, and I knew I was going to get after-school detention for two weeks,and spend it scrubbing the volleyball team’s championship trophies.

Mr. Brunner kept talking about Greek funeral art. Finally, Nancy Bobofit snickered something about the naked guy on the stele, and I turned around and said, "Will you shut up?" It came out louder than I meant it to.

The whole group laughed. Mr. Brunner stopped his story. "Mr. Jackson," he said, "did you have a comment?" My face was totally red. I said, "No, sir."

Mr. Brunner pointed to one of the pictures on the stele. "Perhaps you'll tell us what this picture represents?" I looked at the carving, and felt a flush of relief, because I actually recognized it from one of our first Latin classes "That's Kronos eating his kids, right?" "Yes," Mr. Brunner said, obviously not satisfied. "And he did this because ...”

”Well..." I racked my brain to remember. "Kronos was the king of the Titans,and he didn't trust his kids, who were the gods. So, um, Kronos ate them, right? But his wife hid baby Zeus, and gave Kronos a rock to eat instead. And later, when Zeus grew up, he tricked his dad, Kronos, into barfing up his brothers and sisters-"

"Eeew!" said one of the girls behind me.

"-and so there was this big fight between the gods and the Titans," I continued, "and the gods won."

Behind me, Nancy Bobofit mumbled to a friend, "Like we're going to use this in real life. Like it's going to say on our job applications, 'Please explain why Kronos ate his kids.'"

“And why, Mr. Jackson," Brunner said, "to paraphrase Miss Bobofit's excellent question, does this matter in real life?"

"Busted," Grover muttered. “Shut up," Nancy hissed, her face even brighter red than her hair. At least Nancy got packed, too. Mr. Brunner was the only one who ever caught her saying anything wrong. He had radar ears. Ithought about his question, and shrugged. "I don't know, sir."

"I see,” Mr. Brunner looked disappointed, and said, “and actually for most of you it doesn’t matter. Well, half credit, Mr. Jackson. Zeus did indeed feed Kronos a mixture of mustard and wine, which made him disgorge his other five children, who, of course, being immortal gods, had been living and growing up completely undigested in the Titan's stomach. The gods defeated their father, sliced him to pieces with his own scythe, and scattered his remains in Tartarus, the darkest part of the Underworld. On that happy note, it's time for lunch. Mrs. Dodds, would you lead us back outside?"

The class drifted off, the girls holding their stomachs, the guys pushing each other around and acting like doofuses.

Grover and I were about to follow when Mr. Brunner said, "Mr. Jackson." I knew that was coming.

————-

I told Grover to keep going. Then I turned toward Mr. Brunner. "Sir?"

Mr. Brunner had this look that wouldn't let you go- intense brown eyes that could've been a thousand years old and seen everything.

"You must learn the answer to my question," Mr. Brunner told me.

"About the Titans?"

"About real life. And how your studies apply to it."

“Oh."

"What you learn from me," he said, "is of the _utmost_ importance. I expect you to treat it as such. I will accept only the best from you, Percy Jackson."

I wanted to get angry, this guy pushed me so hard. I mean, sure, it was kind of cool on tournament days, when he dressed up in a suit of Roman armor and shouted: "What ho!'" and challenged us, sword-point against chalk, to run to the board and name every Greek and Roman person who had ever lived, and their mother, and what god they worshipped. But Mr. Brunner expected me to be as good as everybody else, despite the fact that I have dyslexia and attention deficit disorder and I had never made above a C- in my life. No-he didn't expect me to be as good; he expected me to be better. And I just couldn't learn all those names and facts, much less spell them correctly. I mumbled something about trying harder, while Mr. Brunner took one long sad look at the stele, like he'd been at this girl's funeral.

He told me to go outside and eat my lunch.

The class gathered on the front steps of the museum, where we could watch the traffic along Fifth Avenue. Overhead, a huge storm was brewing, with clouds darker than I'd ever seen over the city. I figured maybe it was global warming or something, because the weather all across New York had been weird since Christmas. We'd had massive snow storms, flooding, wildfires from lightning strikes. I wouldn't have been surprised if this was the start of a hurricane.

Nobody else seemed to notice. Some of the guys were pelting pigeons with Lunchables crackers. Nancy Bobofit was trying to pickpocket something from a lady's purse, and, of course, Mrs. Dodds wasn't seeing a thing.

Grover and I sat on the edge of the fountain, away from the others. We thought that maybe if we did that, everybody wouldn't know we were from that school-the school for loser freaks who couldn't make it elsewhere.

"Detention?" Grover asked. "Nah," I said. "Not from Brunner. I just wish he'd lay off me sometimes. I mean-I'm not a genius."

Grover didn't say anything for a while. Then, when I thought he was going to give me some deep philosophical comment to make me feel better, he said, "Can I have your apple?" I didn't have much of an appetite, so I let him take it. I knew that apples were one of Grover’s favorite foods.


End file.
